


The Watchers on Earth

by Apriel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Zarya, Cunnilingus, Doctor/Patient, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Macro/Micro, Makeup Sex, Orgasms as Painkillers, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7723330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apriel/pseuds/Apriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of not-so-short drabbles about the overwatchers and the cute stuff they do with their respective partners. (will update tags & chapter summaries as i post so that u guys can pick & choose ur ships~)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shiki no Uta— McCree/Hanzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo makes an exception for his huckleberry & they get cuddly under the covers in his room at the shimada clan temple è3é

"Are you certain about this? We will not have any interruptions?" Hanzo asks listlessly as he closes the door behind him.

The room is dark, save for the moonlight outside. But that provides plenty since it is full and close, in the perfect position of the open window, framed by the Sakura trees like a painting.

"I mean, it's your house," the American answers him, providing little reassurance while removing his serape first as he stands by the low window ledge.

"This is not a house, Jesse. It is a temple. And what I was asking was if you had made your excuses," the stoic Shimada clarifies.

"Ye~p," the brunet drones dutifully to his nagging partner.

 

McCree's interests are invested in what's outside. It's a magnificent vantage point that even he can appreciate, and he kicks his boots aside as he admires the view from the secluded alcove of a bedroom that looks out across the whole courtyard below.

"Whose turn is it?" Hanzo adds, looking over his shoulder wryly as he takes note of McCree's pensive yet peaceful expression.

His cordiality and lucid commitment to seriousness is foretelling of the many times they've done this, like they're as good as married and such intimation is no more than a ritual with a trustworthy, well-aged finesse.

Though, frankly, that's exactly what it is for them. Being of similar ages, and currently levelled experiences, there is little they haven't weathered together, and in doing so, it has become their signature to take everything in their stride with a calm, sage demeanour.

 

 _Even_ coming to love each other happened with the same wise and mature grace. Well, in their eyes, of course. To the unfortunate observers it was hardly an establishment more dignified than two love-hate high schoolers.

Though it was perhaps to do with Hanzo's modesty, as it were. For keeping up appearances, the pair have been private about this side to themselves in order for things to seem professional and detached.

Not that it wasn't obvious, despite the efforts.

McCree knew _that_ , but Hanzo didn't, and that is why the trigger-happy hero indulges his partner anyway. Particularly for the sake of times as generous and gentle as this, when they can put aside their bickering that is the better known mark of their relationship.

 

"It's your turn," the dark-haired archer answers his own question in order to get the other's attention, failing to hide the tiniest but most telling smile as he watches over his shoulder after laying down his arms.

"My turn, alright... my turn," McCree chants to himself victoriously as he dances from one foot to the other to let his chaps slip down to his ankles.

"That's what I like to hear, my turn," he goes on, setting down his revolver in plain sight, just as Hanzo has done with his weapons.

"You had better not get out of control, Jesse," the older man cautions, turning to his partner now that he is unclothed.

"N'aw don't be like that, darlin'," The American teases tactlessly. "My turn is my turn," he smirks, also rounding to face the other, "and that means I get to have you how—ev—er—I—want."

 

Though he is significantly shorter, certainly enough to be looking up, rather than straight ahead, Hanzo wears a stern expression with his arms folded, and there is no mistaking his gravity.

He glances down at McCree's gaudy belt buckle then, noticing he's been fiddling with it for some time.

Making eye contact again after that brief observation, he speaks smoothly.

"Do you need some help with that, _cowboy_?" He provokes in a steely voice. The kohl lining his eyes makes his umber irises swim, and the taller man grins and bows his head as his lover's hand goes straight for the buckle and releases it with ease.

"Guess I'll hafta' ask y'to undress me all the time, from now on," he smirks, slipping a cigar out of one of the holsters just in time as the thick band of leather drops heavily to the ground.

 

"Not in here," Hanzo berates, plucking the roll of tobacco from the other man's mouth before he even has a chance to light it.

" _This_ is a _sacred_ _place_ , Jesse. There is only one reason why I am letting us do this much."

"Mmm?" The bounty hunter hums thoughtfully.

"What's the reason then, darlin'?" He indulges the invitation to ask, gently caressing the sharp, coarse features of the other's face with the back of his fingers, (always mindful to use his 'good' hand, as Hanzo refers to it.)

"The reason is... that I cannot deny," he pauses as he turns into McCree's careful touch, so that his thumb brushes his cheekbone as Hanzo kisses the heel of his palm, "I've been thinking all day about coming back here and fucking."

 

His crudeness, or certainly such for the curt assassin's usual manner of speaking, catches the American off-guard, and he tenses for a moment before letting out a breathy laugh and bowing his head again.

"Well then—" He concludes, lifting his hat as if to remove it, before a second hand prevents him.

"Leave it on." Hanzo smiles in that charming, steady way, earning another laugh of delighted-surprise.

 

McCree has all the invitation he could need now, and with that he promptly lifts the older man with little resistance, and incites a fervent kissing match as he carries him over to the bed. 

This is always where the pair become competitive again, and it isn't long before McCree is mantling Hanzo like he is his prey.

Hanzo cups the back of his neck for support, reading the strong shape of his jawline with his other hand as they kiss enough to steal each other's breath, and soon they are panting before they've even unleashed what tempers dwell between them.

This is Hanzo's favourite part though, and he forces the eager hunter into partaking for a long time by binding his thighs around his waist to keep him where he is.

 

"Don't get'cha self in knots, old timer, I ain't planning on making this a quickie," McCree smirks.

"Neither am I, so you had better buckle down... cowboy," Hanzo quickly rebukes, releasing him before pushing off on his bare chest.

"Oh, _damn_!" McCree curses as the other man slides down the bed beneath him and, without any such deliberation, takes him into his mouth.

He grins and slowly comes to kneel, thereby straddling the shorter hero and allowing his cold metal fingers to forge streams between the tightly tied tresses.

 

Swiftly, with only a fleeting second of eye contact, Hanzo bats his left hand away. It's clear from that, that he means business, and will not afford himself the chance of seeming complaisant to his partner.

That's how he might put it, but McCree knows that despite his insistence for control and... dignity, in some sense, the real reason he refuses his affections is because he is bashful.

That in itself is endearing to the younger man though, and so he lets his lover have it his way just for now.

 

As one might expect, Hanzo is as thorough and dexterous with his tongue in this discipline as he is when using it for anything else; namely his sharp, silvery jibes mostly aimed at the rambunctious gunslinger.

It's nearly impossible, even for a guy as well accustomed to a good blow job as McCree, not to relax enough for a few sinuous sighs to ghost over his lips.

He remembers to keep his hands to himself, though this is a learned response since usually after one warning, should he continue to let his fingers stray, he gets a lot more than just a slap on the hand as punishment.

 

Hanzo never makes any noise when he does this either, but the way he breathes so rhythmically through his nose is the best indicator that he is enjoying it too, and his eyes are always closed peacefully as he takes him in smooth, expertly calculated breaches.

It helps that there's a lot of Jesse there to grab, too. Enough for a firm hand at the base of his cock and still plenty left to head. 

Hanzo's tongue might just be the best though.

There's no blind, mindless swirling or probing. He uses it thoughtfully; compliments each time he takes him in, and recovers the moment that the pleasure ebbs with the contrasting coolness outside of his mouth, by streaking his shaft with the warm, flat appendage.

 

"You sure are good at that, darlin'..." McCree laughs breathily. "That mouth of yours is pretty— _ah_!"

Clearly even that was overstepping the boundary, as Hanzo draws a displeased hiss from the other by lightly grazing him with his teeth.

"Alright, mister, that's enough of that," Jesse decides, taking the reins and freeing himself with a sharp tug on Hanzo's hair.

" _Oh_? Normally that is enough to win you over," the archer pours testily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he frowns in disapproval at the in-excused hair pulling.

He is never adamantly against letting his lover dominate him, but it is perhaps just in his nature to challenge the authority set before him; just to be sure he can't sway McCree into conceding.

 

"I ain't saying I didn't like it, but it's _my turn_ , baby," the American purrs. "And since that's how it is, if I'm keepin' my hat on, then you'd better let your hair down."

The older man rolls his eyes disdainfully, but he wouldn't deny him this much, and he releases his neatly tied bun before laying down so that the ash and grey streaks blend together as they splay out across the pillow.

"Nu-uh," McCree tuts, earning another scowl from his partner. He seems to want to question him, but instead, Hanzo opts to caution him.

"If you do not get to it soon, the moment will pass, and all that hard work I just did will have been for nothing."

"Easy there," McCree laughs, smoothing his right hand up one of Hanzo's thighs, relishing the feeling of his skin, and the texture of the fine hairs that tickle his fingertips as he maps his way toward the small of his back, gently implying that he should turn over.

 

"I won't run out on ya' that quickly. I ain't an old man like you," he bites back now that the other has instinctively assumed a position on his hands and knees.

Hanzo isn't given the chance for a rebuttal, however. Before he can even fathom a retort, a warm wetness drags a firm path between his cheeks, and as much as he _hates_ to be caught off-guard, this time it's as good as lethal when an involuntary moan trickles out of him.

"You could have at least given me forewarning," he grumbles, looking back accusingly as he braces himself on one elbow and recovers his balance with his other hand flat on the bed beneath him.

"Well if I'd'a done that I wouldn't have the pleasure of hearing you whimper like that, now, would I?" Jesse smirks.

" _Whimper_?" Hanzo echoes begrudgingly. "I do not whimper—" he objects, " _anh—_ " trailing off into a growl as the sensation of the other man's tongue pushing into the slightly reluctant orifice both surprises and excites him.

 

"You're right, darlin'," McCree teases, taking another pause. "I liked that sound just as much."

Stunted for a witty or scathing reply, Hanzo simply grits his teeth and furrows his brow as he starts to bunch up the sheets in his tightly closed fists.

"Hurry up already!" He demands out of the desire to save himself from his current lack of grace, and actually getting the reprieve he didn't quite mean to ask for.

"Hey now, I thought you didn't want this to be a quickie," McCree almost chastises, sounding a little taken aback by his lover's abrasiveness.

 

Realising his slightly overzealous and perhaps unnecessary reaction to being teased, Hanzo exhales calmly and smiles.

"I don't... sh-shikashi... anata wa watashi o kyōki ni shimasu."

Jesse is grinning like an idiot, since the only thing he can garner is that, going by the tone, whatever he had said was stirring.

"I don't have a damn clue what that means, buttercup, but—"

"It means," Hanzo interrupts, turning onto his back again and holding his hand out implicitly, "that you make me crazy," he explains with an effortlessly seductive, dripping tone to garnish his already deep, rolling voice.

 

Understanding the gesture, McCree reaches behind to take the responsibly placed bottle of lubricant from the sleek rosewood ledge at the end of the bed, and makes a show of drizzling plenty over two fingers before setting it down within reach.

The older man shuffles his lower half into the self entitled peacekeeper's lap then, as Jesse gets close and comfortable, while, almost dutifully, Hanzo closes his eyes and fidgets like he is trying to loosen any tension from his neck and shoulders.

Not that he has to ever wonder about the rituals of his partner; he's always been one to stick to his foolproof tricks of the trade, but Hanzo is grateful that despite his reckless attitude and often close-to-the-bone tendency of underestimating things, Jesse never _ever_ makes light of the basics.

 

Right now, the brunet is being as gentle as always, and even though it's apparent that he's being watched, probably with completely embarrassing adoration as well, Hanzo is content like this while he lets the polite intrusion of the other hero's fingers tantalise him.

There's a breeze outside, a little more chilling than the usual gust of tepid wind that sways the Sakura trees. It frees them of their loosest petals and carries them in a pink updraft to scatter about the courtyard, and even McCree can tell that it is a sign the seasons are changing early.

He feels Hanzo's skin prickle against his own; he is less accustomed to the cold, albeit marginal.

But this doesn't prompt him to close the shutters, and it's a well received decision when the elder's rich, magnificent eyes swell in the renewed bout of moonlight stretching across their almost seamless form.

 

Now Hanzo can safely admire Jesse, since he is no longer being admired in return. Presently, he is dappling him with bristly kisses below his naval, and now his hips... his inner thighs...

The assassin thinks he'd never have been able to know such trust, and comfort, and closeness with someone in a way that wasn't exclusively on the terms of his clan. But, somehow this obnoxious man gave him everything he needed.

Perhaps Jesse McCree was the only one he could feel this way about? He was the only one he _wanted_ to feel this way about, anyway. In fact, despite his flaws and habits, and that untameable attitude, this man might actually be someone he could find happiness with for the rest of his life...

The thin curtains sway again as a flurry of petals, with an ethereal softness to their withered texture, drift in through the window, and Hanzo smiles as he watches a pair of blossoms still joined together land silently on the brim of Jesse's hat.

 

"What you smirkin' about? You like that?" The American grins in a way that is so incomparable to the former delicacy of the entire moment.

Hanzo still finds it charming though. And actually, he's somewhat relieved to be removed from the period of liminality, thereby being saved from becoming too philosophical over an anal fingering from a crass cowboy.

"Hai, suki desu." _Yes_ , _I_   _love it,_ helaughs deeply, breaking his own rule of 'hands off' as his fingers move to tuck the stray hairs behind the unkempt vigilante's ear, and lure him closer with the touch.

"I know what that means," McCree smirks crookedly before their lips meet, then part, then meet again more fervently.

"Means you like it, yeah?" He laughs lightly this time, not waiting for a reply before fawning over Hanzo's tattooed shoulder with playful teeth.

"You're correct," the assassin pants, moaning at the pressure of McCree's forearm pushing against his aching cock, and the grazing nips on his skin.

 

Heartened by their intimacy and the warmth of their breaths, the brunet delves his fingers a breadth deeper and matches the rhythm of his exploration to the tone of their kissing.

"Mmm, watashi—sore de ii, kaiteki desu, Jesse." _I'm— that's fine, it is comfortable, Jesse_.

"Enough?" He guesses by Hanzo's serene tone, and the way he relaxes into the pillows behind him as he exhales.

He never takes a gamble when it comes to comfort, and though it would prove quicker to stretch his fingers rather than just slowly barrelling them, he refuses the possibility that Hanzo would like that, and invests his efforts in patience and gentleness.

Hanzo nods to confirm his assumption, and groans softly as Jesse eventually removes his fingers and turns around at an awkward angle so as not to disrupt the man in his lap, as he reaches for the first packet in the litter of silver sachets on the ledge behind.

 

"Īe, shimasen." _No, don't,_  Hanzo interjects softly, shadowing his arm to dissuade McCree from unwrapping the condom.

"Huh? _Oh_ , you want it rare and bloody, eh?"

The older man cringes out of both a lack of understanding for the term, and a general distaste in it regardless.

"Anything! However, _quickly_."

"Wakatta." _Got it_ , McCree mumbles, earning an approving nod from the Shimada before he decides to be persnickety.

"That's, _wakarimashita_ , since you insist on treating me like your elder," Hanzo smirks.

"Tch, shut it," the bounty hunter grunts after hastily lubing up and then gently guiding apart Hanzo's thighs to grant himself unobstructed entry.

 

He gets in line and tries to sink in as fast as the constrictive cavity will allow, without hurting the other hero, of course. But for him it's rather more thrilling without the separation of skin between latex, and the gravelly gunslinger frowns in concentration.

Hanzo, however, is perhaps a little rueful that he demanded such a quick initiation, without really thinking about the repercussions of such a thing in his hunger for relief.

He has to grit his teeth and arch his back a little to aid the other, and his fingers find purchase with the sheets again as they taper under his short-nailed grasp when he lets his head fall back as he gasps.

"A bit— a bit slower, Jesse." He resigns. "I was mistaken to encourage— _ah_! Slower, damn it!"

"Sorry, darlin'," McCree all but gulps as he readjusts his grip on Hanzo's thighs and makes him comfortable in his lap again, starting to edge, rather than slide in continuously with the mentality of a damn steam train.

 

"Better," Hanzo nods with less of a grimace as he tucks his chin into his chest, noticing his partner's quiet inquisition through just his expression.

Truthfully, he _has_ received plenty of preparation, and Jesse _hasn't_ forgone the appropriate amount of coverage before going in, _despite_ how haphazardly he did it...

And he would _never_  say it to Hanzo since, naturally, _he_ would take it as a challenge, but it is simply a helpless case of size difference that makes him a tight entry.

And it _doesn't_ lend to the situation favourably, that even after all this time, Hanzo forgets to acknowledge his limits right away, where often he would insist on sex being one way, then regret it within mere moments.

That doesn't matter to McCree though. He is always glad to entertain his fellow Overwatchman's tastes, and though he may be insensitive in other areas of social protocol, he has never been that way when it comes to Hanzo's comfort in the bedroom.

 

The younger watcher makes this a resounding fact while lovingly musing over the little twitches that occur between Hanzo's brow and his lips when he starts to gently kneed his neglected member in his right hand.

Hanzo moans almost unconsciously, not thinking to catch himself as he starts to throb, and attempts to relieve the intensity by canting his hips upward.

In doing so, his toned midriff relaxes as his lungs fill with air, and Jesse tries to make him more comfortable by swapping hands and gently feeling his lower abdomen in timely periods, warming up his belly with his slightly slick palm.

The cold metal grasping him makes Hanzo wince a little, but it's exciting too— the sudden implement of a new and faintly smarting texture on his sensitive foreskin, and he breathes out again calmly, letting comfortable, pleased sounds drift over his lips as his partner expertly strokes him.

 

Surely it stands for _something_ , McCree thinks, having been pondering the meaning of their relationship all this time.

He often finds that his patience and admiration go a lot further with this man, and he can't help wondering if _that_ , among many other small but new trivialities, makes Hanzo special.

"Start moving, Jesse," the older mercenary orders gruffly, snapping him out of his contemplations and igniting his arousal at the mention of his name in that beautiful, stern voice.

Delighted by the sound of approval, as his first thrust makes Hanzo's mouth open almost to his chest and his thick brows furrow in an expression of blissful-disdain, McCree soon finds his rhythm, and it becomes harder and harder to remain steady.

 

He has to use both hands to support himself as he pistons in and out. The friction and the snug grip of Hanzo's body around his unsheathed cock feels incredible, and he expresses his gratitude for the allowance to go in raw through several angled thrusts aimed toward the other man's prostate.

Clearly Hanzo's jaw is starting to ache now, because instead of letting his mouth hang wider, the defensive hero's teeth click as he grunts and huffs like he's unable to bear much more.

" _Jesse!_ " He grounds out mindlessly, incapable of saying anything else, just seemingly deciding to curse that name, or use it as a reassurance, maybe.

In fact this is quickly proven when several more utterances of his name are strewn out carelessly between gasps, varying in tone and ardency depending on how fast or how straight he's shooting, ( _so_ to speak.)

 

"C'mon, darlin', lemme' hear you," McCree coaxes smugly as he watches Hanzo try to cover his mouth and trap the noises that bubble out of him.

The Shimada shakes his head furiously, the rosy hue on his cheeks flaring up to his ears now that he knows he's being watched.

"No?" The crass cowboy exclaims comedically, pretending not to have understood. " _Well_!" He grunts in mock outrage, "guess I'll just hafta' _work_... a bit _harder_." 

A muffled huff seeps between the assassin's deft fingers as he keeps his hand across his mouth, but he's really on the edge now, and stifling himself is only making him lightheaded.

"That _fff_ eels good, I'm... about to!" The dark-haired watcher finally groans outloud, still being mindful not to say anything too crude.

 

That certainly isn't what _McCree_ wants to hear though, even when he probably isn't far behind after the taxing onslaught of _gripping_ and _shunting_ and _fucking_ like an animal.

As the temperature in the room only rises, the pair become immune to the forgiving breeze and just about any other possible interruptions outside.

He concedes that perhaps if they were a little younger they could have lasted longer; a cynical thought, or perhaps just in good humour, but Jesse is determined to get a curse or a cry out of Hanzo before either of them climax, and so he quickens his pace with a new mentality; like some prize stallion in the last leg of the Kentucky Derby.

"Jesse! You— you're going wild!" Hanzo almost snorts, clutching to his partner's upper arms for dire support as he feels a tingling sheet of sweat disperse over his body.

 

Though there's sweat trickling down his face too, and he can barely see, McCree does enjoy the last vision of Hanzo shining a brilliant crimson in the new stream of moonlight.

His eyelids are heavy, but his pupils are blown into ferrel globes of hazelnut. And his blush is beautiful, how it reaches his heaving chest, waxing and waning like the moon outside with each evenly tempered breath.

He smiles as Hanzo whines blissfully and pushes up against him, purposefully trying to press his swollen cock between their bodies to gain that unimaginable pressure and friction.

"Oh, darlin' you have no idea how much I love seein' you like this," McCree coos.

  
Hanzo's view is just as spectacular though. McCree will never know just how gruff and determined he looks when he reaches this stage, as he pushes himself to see that his lover gets there first.

The tempo of the brunet's breathing is different to his own. He doesn't take steady, loud breaths; in fact he barely remembers to breathe at all.

He huffs every now and again after holding the air in his lungs too long, and that's partly why it's always so fantastic when he finally reaches his zenith, because he's inadvertently delirious.

It's funny that neither knows these things about themselves, but are vastly familiar with them about each other.

 

They're definitely familiar enough to know that despite the illogical nature of it, Jesse's unorthodox technique of fucking almost blindly by this point, always wins over Hanzo's approach of calm, controlled riding.

Overloaded and at his absolute limit, Hanzo's nails start to dig into McCree's shoulders as he grips them to try and quell his uncontrollable fit of trembling.

"Yer alright, sweetheart~" Jesse says as reassuringly as he can manage. "Ya' don't hafta'... h-hold it, babe... if ya'... gunna' come—"

With that sentiment, the sound he has been waiting to hear finally crackles like boiling water poured over frosted glass; it gradates into a keening whine, almost unimaginable for a man with a voice like Hanzo, but _damn_ how Jesse loves it.

 

"F-fuck!" Hanzo curses, triggered by his lover's sympathetic goading.

"I'm coming!" He cries, unabashed while he has no access to better judgement, thanks to the overwhelming thrill of finally releasing the pooling heat in his pelvis and shamelessly boiling over with a spectacular spurt of colourlessness.

Jesse halts his breathing again to listen closely to the weeping sound of pleasure that accompanies the hot spatter of cum, but he continues to thrust in countable measures.

Slow and demanding, he fucks three rolling breaths out of Hanzo that are punctuated with lethargic moans, complimenting the slightly more virile grunt that weans off his own tongue as he also comes.

 

Even when exhausted he gives it his all, a signature finishing move, almost; thrusting sporadically, like it's no more than an autonomic reflex from the currents of pleasure still hijacking his nervous system, even now that they are melting together and winding down from such an almighty high.

McCree pulls out lazily once he remembers to breathe again, and he runs his right hand up Hanzo's body to help him unwind, rubbing his chest to encourage his breathing, too.

"That was great there, buttercup," he pants amusedly, almost disbelieving of the enormities they achieve together.

Hanzo isn't too responsive, but he hasn't passed out yet, which is an improvement; clearly he has been saving himself this time, since usually he is too exhausted to put up beyond his orgasm.

 

He murmurs meaninglessly, rolling his head and holding McCree's hand as it rests on his solar plexus.

The bounty hunter chuckles adoringly, waiting to hear what a good job he did but indulging his amusement at seeing the other hero so subdued, like a sun-soaked feline, too sedate to object to having his belly rubbed where usually he would.

"Whad'ya wanna' do, darlin'?" McCree coos to him. "Think we'd get caught if we made a break for the hot springs?" He wonders with a puerile grin.

Finally Hanzo recovers enough to give him an answer, though rather, he just turns onto his side to face the window and tugs at the covers he is sitting on.

 

"Oh, sorry," the vigilante mumbles automatically, tucking the tired mercenary in as he slips off the bed to make his way across the room.

"In the morning... we can bathe in the morning," Hanzo eventually affirms.

"But don'cha wanna clean up?"

The lack of another reply results in a 'no' by default, and the gunslinger smirks while tutting and shaking his head as he leans on the windowsill.

 

"Can I smoke now?" He queries, glancing back at the drowsy man.

"No, Jesse!" Hanzo reprimands with the most authoritative voice he can manage in this lax state.

Without offering a retort, the younger hero just holds up his hands passively and pivots on one foot, leaning against the sill behind him now.

"Want these closin'?" He then asks in reference to the slatted shutters, lifting his hat and running his robotic fingers through the auburn tangles of hair before placing it back on his head.

"No!" Hanzo growls impatiently. "I want you... to come back to bed," he demands as he starts to yawn.

 

"Not gunna' make me sleep at the end of it, are you?" The wry American jests.

He doesn't garner a reply, _again_ , and so he stiffly lumbers back and makes an issue out of clambering over his partner, laying on top of him for a moment with only the sheets between them.

"Jesse!" Hanzo chastises, bucking him off and anchoring him to the bed with a begrudging cuddle once he shuffles under the sheets.

They settle like this when Hanzo starts to drift off again, not breaking the embrace, and McCree smiles thoughtfully and gently cards his fingertips through the archer's contrastingly sleek locks.

 

"This is cosy, huh, sweetheart?" He probes, nudging his forehead gently with the tip of his nose.

"Go to sleep, cowman," the grouchy Shimada grumbles, turning over almost stroppily so that Jesse is forced to spoon him.

He doesn't comment on how directly Hanzo shuffles his bare behind into his lap though, or the way he sandwiches one of his legs between his warm thighs.

"Ya' did great tonight... yoku yatta." _Well done_ , McCree praises him, insistent on chatting as he twines an arm around the other's middle and cups a firm pec, keeping his lips pressed to the back of Hanzo's neck.

 

"Mmm, very good~" The elder moans drowsily. "What is it... you call your— yourself..." He trails off before snoring and waking himself up briefly to finish.

"Huckleberry," Hanzo smiles dreamily as he snuggles down, not quite realising that if it should come up ever again, McCree will not allow him to revoke the use of that pet name.

"That's right, I'm your huckleberry," he snickers, kissing Hanzo's neck before resigning just as he does, and finding a particularly restful sleep with his lover in his arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes if i don't have a title i'll use the song i listened to while writing (’ v`") anywayyy i hope u guys enjoyed,, i love mchanzo rn so i'll likely write more for them in this fic v soon but feel free to leave me suggestions for future pairings & stuff you'd like to read & i'll try to get something of everything in here. sorry for bad japanese lmao,, unfortunately there will b a lot of me google translatin my way thru~ ( ；´Д｀)


	2. Thunder Only Happens When it's Raining— Roadhog/Junkrat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog is starting to like it in the Overwatch squad a little more than Junkrat cares to witness and things escalate into an arguement ending in tears... and sex :3c

Not surprisingly to those that had spent the evening in the designated base, the peaceful morning in Hanamura is ruined by the same loud mouths, (well, just one extremely loud mouth) that drank several locals under the table, and even drove Genji home in disgrace after staying out until the early hours at Rikimaru.

To name names, that would be none other than Junkrat, not so quietly followed by Roadhog, as the unkempt Aussie swaggers into the kitchenette first, and rattles the coffee machine.

The significantly larger man takes a seat at the circular table, overfilling the unfortunate chair that seems to just disappear underneath him, despite keeping him upright like some kind of illusion.

 

"I'm not even hungova', I tell—you—what, mate," Junkrat begins to profess, "the swig they got around here is weak as all fu—"

"Funny!" Jack breaks in at the prime moment with a displeased Lúcio and a sleepless D.Va in tow.

" _Funny_ you two should be up before the rest of us," the silver-haired hero continues, shooing Junkrat aside as he goes to rescue the coffee machine from unnecessary harassment.

"Yeah, especially after the night you had," Lúcio adds, trying to sound like he isn't greatly offended by the antics that ensued back at the base.

"Oh, ya' heard us then?" Junkrat proudly exclaims in a shrill voice.

"Has anyone seen my mug?" Jack inquires.

"You can't use that one," D.Va answers him as she notices the soldier going to take the only other mug that has an official owner.

"That's McCree's mug," she clarifies.

 

Jack sighs and puts it back, deigning to settle for one of the plain ones to have his coffee in.

"McCree isn't even here, it hardly matters," he grumbles, despite being the only one who actually cares about the distribution and ownership of the kitchen utensils.

"Oh, thas' right! Gendo said him an' his brother went back to the castle las' night!" Junkrat announces with unnecessary ebullience.

"What'cha think that means?" He winks in the direction of his partner.

 

A firm hand claps down on his shoulder just then, and he turns sheepishly with the assumption that 'team dad' is about to berate him for his vulgarity.

Instead, he is horrified to come face-to-face with the eery, expressionless skull of a barn owl.

"Not that death needs sleep, but shouldn't you be a little fucking quieter at 6am? And 5am? And 4am? And-"

"Gabe, that'll do. He's about to cry." Jack intervenes as he watches the comparably minuscule man wither under Reaper's deathly grip that only tightens as he starts to rant.

"Why are you already dressed for a mission, anyway?" The older man continues to converse in the background of D.Va and Lúcio's discussion.

 

"Aren't they cute? They're like super tall, super grumpy... super murderous dads," she mutters, earning an agreeing snicker from the mellow musician.

"Yeah, yeah," he nods, smirking at her as she sinks both hands into the pouch on her hooded sweatshirt, trying not to rustle too much as she retrieves one of the small, powdered confectioneries given to her by Genji after their tour of the city.

"Did you mean to say dads?" Lúcio probes teasingly.

Hana frowns, unamused, and offers him a handful of sweets to buy his silence on the matter of raillery, since it's too early to be dealing with that.

"I heard ya' too, lil' Sheila," Roadhog mentions as he leans toward the girl, a tad too close for comfort.

"Jenjang," she curses, forking over the entire bag of mochi before cutting her losses and leaving.

 

 

When the wheels are finally in motion, that is to say, when everyone is finally present and ready for their briefing, (though perhaps some still not fully awake yet) everyone splits off into their teams.

The sight of Hanzo and McCree side-by-side after they are appointed to different cooperations earns many a smirk from those nearby; they really are doing a terrible job of keeping their relationship quiet, even though Hanzo thinks they're doing superbly.

They aren't the pair that need to be closely monitored, though. As usual, when business is underway, the RoadRat duo is nowhere to be seen, traceable only by the scent of petrol and burnt hair.

 

"Hey, Hog, now that we're off the leash, hows about we go looking for some junk to scrap and make into bombs?" The scatterbrained scavenger suggests, already off course and set in the direction of a boarded up two-story building.

The larger man glances over at him, emoting nothing that could be detected without the aid of his voice.

He looks over at D.Va then, seemingly weighing something up.

"Nah, I'm staying on target," he informs.

 

The smaller man stands up straight for a moment and frowns, seemingly affronted by the casual dismissal.

"What'd you say? You mean yer' actually gonna'... do shit?"

"I'm gunna' help the kid," Roadhog answers again with blatant cordiality, wiping a sniper off the roof of a nearby store mid-speech.

"Eh?! But Hog, who cares about— you've neva' thought about helpin' out before!" Junkrat objects.

"You go on, I've got this," the giant man says bluntly, dismissing his partner for the last time before he goes to defend.

"But— but we— but I— ugh! Fuck that then!" The dotty demolitionist huffs, making his way swiftly to the debris surrounding a derelict corner of the high-street.

 

 

When the time comes and they are recalled after the mission, Roadhog lingers in the hopes that his partner would have at least heard that much, and decided to return to them.

No such thing happens, however, and he begrudgingly turns his back and rides home with D.Va and Lúcio, (who appear to have made up after the morning's banter.)

It's a good few hours before the Overwatchers start to disband from the break room after dinner, retiring in variant numbers until only Jack is left to tidy up like the squadron housemaid.

Gabriel doesn't let him do this alone though. Of course he _tries_ to be subtle, and to make it seem as though he isn't helping out of kindness, but merely tidying away his _own_ utensils while trying to encourage the other man to hurry along to bed with him.

In a slightly more distant part of the complex, Roadhog isn't surprised to find his own partner sat in the dark after having crept into their room long after everyone else returned.

It's a typical habit of his that occurs only when he's in a strop, but the gigantic junker is patient and compassionate as he removes his boots and his gear and waits for the other Aussie to make the first remark.

 

"Just gunna' ignore me, eh?" Junkrat grunts, cross-legged as he sits on his own futon by the open window, frowning.

The moonlight catches his profile, and his scorched skin shimmers a little like star-speckled powder on his cheekbones and around his hairline.

Roadhog takes off his mask last, and sets it aside with the rest of his belongings at the end of the mattress where it is in reach.

 

"I don't fuckin' get it, Mako! You actually chose that band of geezers over me?"

"I didn't... Jamie," Roadhog finally defends himself, "it wasn't like you were in peril— you know I'd choose you otherwise—"

"So you're admittin' that you chose 'em over me!" The quick tempered anarchist interrupts.

"Jamie—"

"I thought we agreed that we ain't like them! We ain't heroes, an' we don't owe nothin' to anyone! You said it ain't in our nature to side with anyone but each other! You've changed your mind now, huh?!"

"No—"

"You've settled right at home 'ere though, haven't ya'?! Actin' like a propa' hero, savin' people and teamworkin' and shit!"

"We're contracted to—"

"Contracted! Psh! What, like we're actually gunna' do honest work for honest pay?! That ain't us! That ain't what we're about! But you've changed, mate! You actually think you're one of these goons now, eh?"

This, the enormous guy must confess to, and the whole room trembles in shock with the unforeseen quickness that the one-man apocalypse stands up with.

 

"That's right! I like it here, and you're just gunna' have to get used to that fact because some day I'm just gunna' leave you!" The former enforcer finally bites back, his voice somehow more intimidating than when he is wearing his mask.

The entire atmosphere drops dramatically into a cold, dark tone, and Roadhog sees how all that fire and vivaciousness just abandons his partner's eyes.

"Y— you're gunna' leave me?" Junkrat echoes listlessly, taking a moment processing the threat before it hits him all at once, and his eyes light up again with fat, burning tears.

"You're gunna' leave me?" He cries, "don't leave me! Don't say a thing like that— god damn, Mako!" The smaller man protests, swinging from anger to sadness.

Don't... don't leave me!"

 

The sight of Jamison in such distress tugs at Mako's chest, like his own chain hook has just been hurled at him and has snagged his heart.

"I won't."

He takes a step forward, and Jamie takes five, falling into his arms gracelessly as he kneels down for the smaller watcher.

"I got angry," the silver-haired outlaw states. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, I'm not gunna' leave you."

 

Jamie is an ugly crier if ever he's seen one, but to know that he caused the display gives the other mercenary more reason to ignore the blond's croaky sobs and gripping fingers, and take him into his arms to comfort him.

"Don't cry, babe," Mako implores in the kindest voice he can manage; it's a damn lot easier without the smoggy filter of his mask, though.

"I'm not gunna' leave you. I promise," he continues his attempts to soothe, "I love you, okay?"

"Yeah?" Junkrat whimpers with a hopeful inclination, glancing up with swimming eyes as he is held to the other man's chest like a gorilla might hold a lithe branch in order to bend it.

 

It's an ungainly sight; a disproportionate and bizarre arrangement of two bodies. But even still, there is something genuine and beautiful about how they fit together, and as Junkrat gradually ceases to cry, the atmosphere becomes peaceful.

"Yeah," the burnt blond sniffs, answering his own question, "me... me too. I love ya' too."

"I'm not gunna' leave you, mad mouse," the Maori assures, able to rub his partner's back in an effort of compassion with just one huge thumb.

Junkrat nods, relaxing into the safety of the embrace and laying his head on a broad, almost indistinguishable shoulder, taking a quiet moment to calm down.

 

"Can we fuck now?" He pipes up in a completely unenthused tone; as if to say he's over it and ready for any kind of distraction from the emotional surge.

Mako laughs and agrees without a word; his soft face, so rarely exposed but so wonderful to see, as he smiles and lets Junkrat step back out of his arms and quickly go to unbuckle his pants.

It's quicker for him to do it, since such fiddly appendages require a set of slim, dexterous fingers that Roadhog, unfortunately, does not possess, but he offers one of those large bear paws to the other man once he is nude, and helps him onto his knee like a stepping stone.

From here Junkrat attempts to mount himself on Roadhog's shoulders in a tactless, cumbersome, but typical way for them.

 

The giant of a man helps his partner up to his mouth, where Jamie proceeds to impale himself on his tongue, suspended almost five feet off the ground as he rides Roadhog's face and makes no attempt to do so quietly.

The crass, uncouth way the pair engage one another is misleading; in actual fact is nothing but a sensual, intimate experience, even though they're rough and messy.

Roadhog's tongue is, as Junkrat might put it, like having a second dick in his mouth. It's just as gargantuan as the rest of him, but it feels infinitely better than his actual cock, since his tongue has more give, instant lubrication, and can reach him in _all_ the right places.

With no regard for who might hear, the insatiable scavenger continues to fuck himself on his partner's face, moaning and cursing as the pair of ginormous hands unfurl beneath him and give him the stirrups he is lacking to really ride himself raw.

 

"You need a bath after this, ya' gremlin," Mako teases, removing his tongue to give Jamison something to cry about.

"N— no, put it back!" The younger man implores, rubbing himself indignantly against the chiselled cantle of Roadhog's chin.

"Don't make me wait!" He whines, gathering two fistfuls of silver hair and shunting like a demanding child until Roadhog concedes, and stops supporting him so that he sinks quickly down on his erect tongue and lands with a clap.

 

He does this several times, lifting him up with the palms of his hands, almost right off his tongue, swiping a big clean lick up Junkrat's cunt and then letting him drop straight back down, penetrating him over and over until the blond begs not to be moved as his climax descends on him.

As the smaller watcher starts to whimper and weep— really, this time, not just to be excessive and dramatic— the one-man apocalypse unleashes that chaos inside his partner by thrashing his tongue like an alligator being dragged from a marsh.

It's so huge and powerful that the back and forth movement creates a visible wave that pushes against the inside of Jamie's belly each time it laps to the front, and the junker is on the verge of tears; red-faced, heaving, and delirious as he starts to come.

The overwhelming frailty that comes from being handled and held by such a huge and powerful man is a guilty pleasure of Junkrat's, and he is panting and pining as his body contracts around the obscene intrusion, mumbling and muttering in that shrill, inconsistent squeak of his as he gradually starts to tighten up and relish in the reel of his orgasm.

 

Only when he gives that last sigh of relief does Roadhog deem him ready to be relieved further, and he lifts his partner like a china doll, withdrawing his cum-slick tongue and embarrassing the other man by making a show of swallowing as he lays him down.

After the urge has been fulfilled, Junkrat is much less carnal and much more modest.

He hides his face and stifles himself as the older man licks him clean. All it takes is one or two swipes of that big flat tongue, but to make it worth its salt, he takes his time and aims to be dexterous with the overlarge appendage.

Sometimes it's enough to arouse Junkrat all over again, but tonight Roadhog is fixed on a gentle attempt at reconciliation. He wants to bathe his spritely little lover, and that is what he does.

 

The springs are closest to their room, and big enough, (even for an occupant like Roadhog) to just disappear amidst the steam and unwind, away from prying eyes.

Not that anyone else would be up at this time, least of all taking a bath... or so they assumed.

As Roadhog carries a lucid Junkrat against his chest like a child, submerging them in the divine hot water, the distant huffs of two vaguely familiar voices let them know they're not alone.

The pair snicker, keeping their distance but being forced to laugh under the water when the phrase, "qué te parece eso, papi?" is slurred out from across the springs in Jack's unmistakable attempt at a seductive Spanish accent.

 

"Wanna' call it a night?" Junkrat whispers in a hysterically hushed tone, ignoring the way Roadhog is trying to rinse away the dirt and petrol off his charred skin, creating small waterfalls with such big palmfuls of water.

"Nah," the tank of a man replies in a surprisingly melodic voice, "I think I'd rather we joined them," he purrs, sliding two fingers between Junkrat's thighs with the combined width of a tree branch.

"Pervert," the blond smirks, letting the pressure on his clit build as he bares down on the digits beneath him, his freckles evident and charming now that his skin is clean and nurtured.

The exclamation, "Ah Dios! Jack!" is thrown their way soon, and it is clear that the 'anonymous' couple have reached their completion, just as the RoadRat duo begin theirs.

 

They hear them leave and fortunately head in the opposite direction; clearly the dad duo are rooming across the courtyard, and it's a grateful fact when the combined heat of the water and the pressure of Roadhog's fingers bring the smaller junker to his climax without even entering him.

"Already?" Roadhog queries.

"Y—yeah," Junkrat pants, nodding certainly. "I'm all done in."

The Maori smiles gently, and is sure to clean his partner thoroughly before he falls asleep in his arms on the way back to their room.

It's rare to see Junkrat so calm and relaxed where usually he is highly strung and hyperactive; it's peaceful though, and a welcomed reward for the older outlaw as he sets him down carefully and sees that he is content.

 

"I'd never leave you..." Mako mumbles to his sleeping partner, "I'd never tire of this... no way," he coos, covering Jamie with his hand as the scrapper turns onto his side to be nearer to him.

"Shut up, mate... you know I can't stand that stuff," the blond grumbles half-conciously, a much tamer smirk on his curled lips.

"Alright... good night, mad mouse," Mako smiles, signing his conclusion with the pet name and a delicate kiss on his freckled forehead.

He hums to him again, a subconscious ritual that the older man has come to trust in ensuring a long and restful sleep for Jamie, and he goes on humming softly until he finds rest himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i abandoned this for so long,, i've been super busy but anyway i really enjoyed writing some messy roadrat i love them being gross & rude ( ’ v`)


	3. How to turn a White Russian into a Strawberry Milkshake— Mercy/Zarya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarya is reluctant to admit that she's in pain after a battle, but Mercy knows just how to take care of that and more~ u3u

"That's it, big girl," the fair-faced blonde coos as she elevates one of Zarya's heavyset legs with ease.

"Are you hurting anywhere? Any aches?" She makes sure once they're both comfortable on the bed.

"Nothing I cannot handle," the Russian replies sternly, despite her usually kind green eyes remaining downcast dubiously.

Angela knows better than to take her at her word when it comes to being injured, though. In spite of her size and brute strength, protecting others is Zarya's forté,  _and_  her weakness.

Though the Swiss would never say it to her, she can't help admiring how wonderfully soft Zarya is in that respect. A hardened warrior on the outside, but in the right company, she is as cosy and admirable as one such Siberian bear.

 

"Now then, where does it hurt?" The effervescent medic persists in that knowing tone.

"I told you, I'm not hurt. I will be back out there tomorrow!" The determined woman asserts; though the frown hasn't disappeared from her face, and she lets out a noticeable sigh containing aggravation.

This is all it takes to betray herself, she realises; especially when Angela, instead of asking again, just smiles sympathetically and reaches out to feel her forehead with the back of her hand.

"It's your head that hurts, hm, cherub?" She deduces.

The pink-haired giantess looks somewhat defeated, but Angela's hand is caring, and her skin is soft and cool against her own slightly feverish skin.

"I took two, like you said," she murmurs, glancing at the aspirin capsule on the nightstand.

 The blonde hums understandingly, and turns her hand over to offer another few moments of relief before she inevitably absorbs the heat from Zarya's flushed forehead.

 

"On a scale of one to ten, how badly would you say it hurts?" She inquires, softening her voice even more, just to ensure that she doesn't add to the pain with any undue ebullience.

"Zero—  _net_ — it is negative numbers!" Zarya answers firmly, earning another sympathetic gesture from Mercy as she winces and recoils from the repercussion of her own enthusiasm. 

"M-maybe seven..." She mumbles unhappily.

"Seven, hmm?" The miracle medic muses.

"That's a substantial amount of pain for you, bärli. I'd say it's almost certainly worse than that if a tough girl like you is in discomfort." 

 

She is certain to assure the other that her fortitude is not without its deserved acknowledgement and praise. 

However, her primary goal remains to ease the unyielding athlete into being more honest about her aches and pains, and so she lets her healing hands migrate, and her fingertips begin to massage in trained circles by her temples.

She's sat close enough; just on the edge of the bed, turned sideways where Zarya is laid out instead, but even still, the green-eyed warrior shadows her hands as they continue to lightly bracket the sides of her head.

A frown draws the injured woman's brow together in a distinct pleat, and she opens her mouth just a fraction. Rather than a protest or a complaint, though, what escapes her is a fleeting but almost delicate moan.

 

"Why don't you lie down?" Angela prompts, but Zarya shakes her head.

"I am fine, I should return to my room," she ruefully announces, though she hasn't opened her eyes yet... nor has she dissuaded the heavenly hands from chasing away the edges of her splitting headache.

"Now you listen to me, young lady..." The blonde chides humorously, a mothering tone lacing her words as she removes her hands and makes a somewhat scolding gesture with her index finger poised.

"There is no strength in avoiding, or in this case,  _refusing_  to acknowledge one's pain," she begins to explain, "you must take  _care_  of your body; it is okay if you are hurt, I'm here to patch you up."

"I... do not have the time to be injured!" Zarya protests earnestly, her myrtle eyes gleaming with conviction, as always.

She winces again when her ardency only provokes the straining ache inside her head, and this time it drives her to bring a large palm up to nurse her forehead.

 

Angela utters a string of sinuous hushes, bringing a hand back to caution her tumultuous teammate as she cups one side of her face.

It's almost endearing that her own palm barely encompasses the breadth of Zarya's strong jaw, and yet she noticeably leans into it seeking comfort.

A tut born from empathy ticks behind her pristine teeth, and her smooth, rolling accent makes her words as light and appealing as fluffy white clouds.

"Liebling..." She sympathises, "believe in me to get you back out there as soon as I can."

 

Zarya glances at her humbly, already feeling assuaged by her nurturing tone.

"And show  _me_  that I can believe in  _you_ ; that you'll let me help you stay strong," the blonde encourages with a warm smile.

"And that means not doing things to make my job more difficult, like going back into battle  _before_  you're fully recovered," she adds sternly, making clear eye contact by ducking a little to level with the other and subtly willing her to submit.

"Mm," the larger woman finally resigns as pain gets the better of her.

"As for your headache..." Angela reinstates, "I'll take care of that for you right now, if  you.ll let me?" She makes sure, gently nudging Zarya's warm cheek with her perfect nose.

 

She continues to brush against her this way, using her lips to do so when the Russian nods and sighs contently.

The feather-light touches are far more gentle than the kinds of initiative gestures Zarya has come to expect from most lovers.

For her size and general preferences in partners, she is used to much rougher reactions. But, there is something pleasant and comforting about being the one to receive these doting ministrations.

Curious as to where it would go now; having never been with someone that takes the reins immediately, the pink-haired warrior reclines, letting Angela support her position as she cradles her head until it meets the pillow.

"That's it," she coos, almost impossibly quiet, and as  _gentle_  as candlelight.

When she moves away from her line of sight, leaving Zarya with only the familiar feeling of those nimble fingers, the latter finds herself tightening with apprehension, but also desire.

 

Just from Mercy peeling at the waistband of her pants, the soldier presses her muscular thighs together and bunches up a fistful of the bed sheet beneath her while doing the same with her vest in the other hand.

Diligent as always, and especially keen to spot such telling signs, Angela pauses and slides a hand up Zarya's body, leaning over her and kissing her shoulder.

"Have you not had someone undress you like this before?" She wonders, not wanting to mince words where there may be a possibility that the other would be too embarrassed about it to explain.

Zarya shakes her head and accompanies this with the softest 'no' that she has ever uttered, but Angela doesn't comment.

Instead, she takes the much larger hands in her own, coaxing them out of tight fists, and guides them down so that Zarya may undress herself alongside the other set of much more tentative fingers.

 

It isn't really out of lack of experience, her nervousness. Although, actually...  _maybe_  in this case it is.

While sporting athletics haven't been the  _only_  kind that the Russian Olympian is familiar with; being the confident, heavyweight beauty that she is, she perhaps gave a slightly unfavourable impression that never was disputed.

In the past she simply attracted partners who would assume that she was always glad to fulfill the role of a sensual protector, rather than someone that enjoyed an equal amount of reciprocation and affection.

Kissing and playfulness had certainly been a well indulged activity on both sides at  _first_ , but the give and take would dwindle when things became even more intimate.

And that wasn't to say that her previous lovers were in any way _insincere_ , but it was rare that the poor girl would get hers too, even as much as she would enjoy satisfying her partner.

 

"I have never had this before," she blurts out once she is free of her undergarments, and is now reclined again, safe from the embarrassment of being able to make direct eye-contact with the other woman.

"That's quite alright, cherub," Mercy reassures, gently rubbing up and down a powerful but tense thigh as she tries to coax the nervous giant into parting her legs.

"Is there somewhere else you'd like me to touch you first?" She suggests in the guise of a question, edging round to one side and slipping a hand under the other's vest where she begins to rub her tummy before making her way up to her breasts.

Zarya doesn't protest, and so the blonde goes ahead and uses both hands to gently knead her heavily weighted pectorals while her lips inch closer and closer to Zarya's slightly open mouth.

When she finally kisses her, the timid Russian finds her confidence, and gladly reciprocates, using the opportunity to show her partner her talents by taking the lead with her tongue.

 

"Would you like me to take this off for you?" Mercy offers with a glowing smile as they pause for a breath and gaze at each other.

The threat of overexposure seems to make Zarya shrink back again, however, as she shakes her head and looks a little imploring.

"... I'm nervous," she bravely declares, "I'm not used to it being like this."

Her accent is somewhat subdued by her tone and the waver in her voice; far less distinct than usual, and for a moment Angela continues to gaze at her teammate, just taking the time to understand how she is feeling.

Her emerald eyes aren't still; as if she's searching for some kind of incentive, and the dim light only exaggerates the sweat that glistens on her brow and top lip as she breathes audibly through her nose.

"I'll take care of you," the radiant woman then promises.

"You can stop me _any_ time," she adds, hoping that the other would certainly have the courage to do that if she was unhappy.

"...Khorosho,"  _Okay_ , the Russian beauty nods meekly, and Mercy initiates another kiss to prevent the mood from dwindling, as she lets her far hand stray over the toned ridges of muscle adorning her sculpted abdomen, before lingering much lower down.

 

" _That's_  it, big girl," the healer encourages in a velvety drawl as she finds access between the large warm thighs when they open just a little.

 

She's relieved to note that the other is already wet, and it grants even easier access as she smooths her palm over the coarse thatch of hair, before curling her middle finger on the ledge of her pubis so that it rests snugly inside her.

"Oh~" The tremulous sound escapes the larger woman as she turns away from the kiss to catch her suddenly very sparse breath.

The blonde extends her arm more generously then, so that her finger has more leeway and she can invite another one to join in as she feels Zarya contract around the already present digit.

"Is that good?" She croons in an agreeable tone, aiming not to patronise the other.

Zarya nods.

Her eyes are closed again and her face is very red, and even though her breathing is louder it's at least more stable.

 

With a hand still by her breast, Angela can feel how Zarya's heart pounds. It's a wonderful thrum; a very powerful rhythm, and it gives her confidence to know that her patient is becoming somewhat  _im_ patient.

Swiftly, but steadily enough so that Zarya can follow, and object if need be, Angela removes her fingers and gradually shuffles down the bed to be almost between her legs.

The pink-haired soldier seems reluctant to expose herself again, however, and so the blonde takes another worthwhile moment to reassure her as she gently holds the backs of her ankles and carefully moves her feet outwards.

This sparks another flutter of nervousness, and Zarya raises her head this time to watch as Mercy edges in between her thighs.

"Are you sure?" The Russian speaks up.

Her hands have returned to her sides and she is fisting up handfuls of the linen sheets again.

"Are you sure you want to?"

 

Thinking that perhaps the anxious defender is concerned about her interests in genuinely pleasuring her, due to a lack of such prior, Mercy makes an honest expression as she speaks.

"I'm  _most_  certain, my darling," the medic replies sincerely.

"Are you shy? You're really quite beautiful, you know?" She then wonders, earning another aversion of eye-contact and a deeper shade of red to garnish the other's complexion.

"I'm not shy..." Zarya assures, though perhaps not with as much conviction as she had meant to.

" _She_  certainly isn't," the blonde smirks impishly as she eyes the conch of pink petals between the larger woman’s legs;  _needing_  and  _aching,_ and breathing just as she does.

 

With an uncharacteristic sound, though barely audible even still, Zarya whimpers lightly and opens her legs in response.

"Großartig, wie sehr schön Sie sind."  _Magnificent, how very lovely you are_ , the blue-eyed woman pours as she sees how Zarya responds excitedly, and reassures her by stroking and kissing her way up the inside of her leg first.

With the enormity and power in her coiled muscles, and the rising heat between her thighs, it's easy to appreciate Zarya's strength.

Though, it's also easy to be grateful for her patience and her bravery, when it becomes clear from just one glance at the taughtness, that she is trying very hard not to clamp her legs shut out of modesty.

For this reason, Angela doesn't want to spend too much longer keeping Zarya in anticipation, and so she offers a touch of her lips to the damp join of the other's hip, and slides two fingers back inside her before she's even finished kissing.

 

She gives her time to adjust, working her fingers in slowly, and not striving for any more room than the tense cavity will allow.

She remembers to talk to her as well, integrating a blend of gentle, periodic kissing to her inner thighs and lower abdomen, while praising her for her patience and progress.

Though she is a little embarrassed that her body may be giving the wrong impression, and making it seem to Angela like she's never at all done this before, Zarya also reminds herself to be vocal, and tells her partner that she needs more stimulation.

The healer gladly obliges, and Zarya is surprised at how quickly this overrides her resolve to stay quiet, as an airy moan escapes her lungs when she feels the long, wet drag of Mercy's tongue drawn right up her vulva.

"Ah~ Are you sure?" She frets, straining to lift her head enough so that she can see the other woman.

 

This time Angela doesn't answer her though; while she has the soldier's full attention, instead she makes a show of using only her mouth to pleasure her.

She employs both hands to support Zarya's legs for her too, the now slightly more relaxed muscles pressing between her spread fingers as she holds them apart and begins to nurse on her swollen clit.

The former Olympian lets out another involuntary gurgle of equal parts Russian and equal parts English, making an overall indistinguishable sound, but she doesn't lay her head back again. 

She seems desperate to watch, even as the sweat from her brow trickles down the sides of her face and nose, and makes her wince to avoid it getting in her eyes.

Her breathing is already heavy and difficult to catch; it feels a lot different to be the one receiving this kind of love and devotion, and her stamina is running out much,  _much_  sooner than it would normally.

 

" _Oh_ ,  _look_  at you," Angela coos as she glances up to pause for another breath.

 

"You poor darling, let me fetch you a towel—"

She is about to do so, but a firm hand suddenly protests before she can get off the bed.

Zarya shakes her head, wiping away the sweat with the back of her arm before letting out a desperate pant.

"Don't stop," she says, half-commanding, half-pleading.

Angela smiles understandingly, and nods once, returning to her post, as it were.

This time, however, Zarya is much more accommodating now that she knows what to expect, and she moves her legs out wider so that the blonde can get as close as possible.

 

"I-I like it..." She moans, letting out a slow breath to calm herself down as her hands trace her quads before they sink between her own thighs, and she gingerly runs her fingers through Mercy's gossamer hair for some kind of solidarity.

" _That's_  it, grip as hard as you need to," the angelic healer condones as she stops momentarily to take note of Zarya's blissful expression, before returning to close her lips around the skirting of flesh, suckling as her tongue dips inside.

This, apparently, is a very well received move, as the grip tightens into two fistfuls of hair, and Zarya whimpers loudly.

"I'm-I'm sorry!" The larger woman apologises earnestly, releasing the blonde tresses after canting her hips upward to meet Mercy's mouth.

 

As her reservations start to wither and her arousal blooms in its place, Zarya is unable to prevent herself from asking for more though.

"No need to fret, herrlich," Angela assures her, more than prepared to put up with a bit of rough handling, given her partner's strength and growing excitement.

Zarya throws her head back then, her own sweet-pink locks tumbling from their gelled shape and just about reaching to splay across the pillow.

Her face is unbearably red, and she has to keep one hand free to routinely mop the sweat from her brow before it begins to sting as it runs down to her eyes.

She takes a deep, stuttering breath, her chest heaving as she exhales with a moan when Mercy's tongue pushes up from the inside, while she is simultaneously mouthing at her sensitive clit.

 

No one has ever done this for her before, probably because no one _dared_ , and perhaps that's why it's so overwhelming, both physically and emotionally.

Not to mention, Mercy is _most_ adept, and the minute her tongue is replaced by her fingers, Zarya grips tightly again, trying desperately not to hurt her.

In those efforts, of course, she realises that there is only one way to release her building excitement without pulling her partner's hair or closing her legs.

The sound is pushed from her lungs anyway, as the blonde now uses three fingers to stimulate a spot that Zarya had never  _actually_ been able to discover for herself.

 

The curvaceous warrior gasps this time, and shunts enough to draw in the other woman's lithe fingers right up to the knuckle, desperate for the rising feeling to finally come to some kind of zenith and give her relief.

Angela understands. She knows what Zarya is looking for. In fact it's out of her own delight at hearing the pleading mewls from the Russian that she continues to take so long.

Those sounds almost seem as though they don't _belong_ to the larger woman. Who knew she was capable of expressing such fragility and desperation?

Staying true to her name though, the blonde grants her mercy, and changes to using only two fingers so that she can better stimulate the other with a consistently powerful up and down movement, that reaches deeper, and sends short and fast waves of pleasure.

Her mouth, meanwhile, she doesn't forget the importance of. Pressing her firm lips against the exposed pearl and using her tongue to tantalise the nerves causes Zarya to wince and groan as she struggles not to push too hard on Mercy's head, or tear her vest with her other hand as she grips the fabric...  _or_  just cry.

 

She can't keep her legs still. The rhythm makes them sway open and then marginally closed, and in turn the weight of her therefore makes the whole bed bounce.

Angela is smiling though; to her it's a good sign, and an even better one when Zarya's moans take on a new pitch, and she begins to give breathless orders.

The medic can already tell that she is close. Though it took a while to get here, her oncoming orgasm is evident just by the way her lower abdomen tenses and cum begins to leak in abundance to invite out her climax.

"Prodolzhat' idti, prodolzhayte! Prodolzhayte! Pozhaluysta..."  _Keep going, don't stop! Keep going, please_ , Zarya implores.

She feels a scarcely familiar pinch then, and she is afraid that at this point, Mercy might draw back.

The possibility frustrates her, and she continues to beg as blissful tears flow into the streams of sweat down her cheeks.

 

"Please, do not stop! Keep going! Keep going!" She weeps, barely conscious of her own actions enough to see that, frankly, even if Mercy was going to stop any time soon, she'd have a hard chance at pulling away with Zarya's mighty hand veritably pushing her face-first into her cunt.

With a free hand, Angela rubs the inside of a trembling thigh to assure her that she won't cease yet, and the Russian makes a sudden gleening cry as her climax rolls out steadily until it reaches that point of pinnacle pleasure, and then everything begins to  _contract_ , and  _throb_.

At this, Angela removes her fingers so as not to hurt Zarya while her body begins to close off again after the long period of tenseness, then openness.

There's a distinct patch of dampness, telling of where all of the heavyset woman's pressure had been concentrated to leave an outline soaking into the bed.

That doesn't matter, of course, Angela reminds herself. There have surely been far worse things she's had to wash out of these sheets.

What matters to her is that Zarya is still comfortable.

 

She seems to be struggling to catch her breath, but she is much more relaxed; her legs are splayed flat on the mattress, giving the blonde a clear and highly appreciated view of the hardworking flower as it retracts and then blooms in time with the heavy panting.

Not that she wouldn't love to just sit and admire her satisfied patient, but she is still resigned to business as usual, and so she makes light of the aftermath by gently wiping down the other and bundling a smaller towel under her to absorb the bounty of fluids.

Zarya barely notices, thanks to her delicacy, as the candid doctor wipes the glistening webs of translucent discharge off her inner thighs before reaching for another towel, and mantling her almost lovingly.

 

" _There_ now," she says softly.

 

"How is your head feeling? All better?"

The Russian nods; it's the most cogent form of communication she can manage as she waits to recover.

Though, there's no lie in _that_.

Her headache has certainly eased, and she feels most content as she basks in the warm glow derived from such unfathomable relief.

It only feels warmer when Angela lies down next to her for a few peaceful moments, too.

She props herself up on one elbow and dries her face for her, dabbing ever so gently with the flannel and then correcting the now unruly tangles of rosy pink hair.

 

The blue-eyed healer giggles when she notices that Zarya's face actually  _matches_  the colour of her hair.

It's a trivial but adorable happenstance, and she's glad to have the time now to just admire the burly beauty as her eyelids begin to flutter and her head begins to loll.

"Sie sind sehr schön, mein lieber,"  _You're ever so lovely, my darling_ , Angela murmurs adoringly, tidying up Zarya's vest to cover her exposed midriff and reaching for the sheets to protect her modesty.

She assumes that it'll be unlikely for the other to leave now; Zarya is completely worn out, and clearly quite comfortable where she is, if her light snoring is anything to go by.

"You dear little soldier," the blonde smiles, getting off the bed and tucking her in soundly, before leaving her in peace as she proceeds to the watch room for her shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a weakness for zarya being a soft and nervous lil honey in bed (; 3;)  
> anyway happy new year guys!! feel free to leave me suggestions for new chapters/ pairings etc~ ( ’ ヮ’)ノ


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